


amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus

by twisted_sheets



Series: Changes [2]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Canon is your warning, Completed, F/M, Fucked Up Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisted_sheets/pseuds/twisted_sheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A side-story for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/561177/chapters/1002411"><i>Changes</i></a>. Genderswap AU, where Takaba is a woman. Takaba finds herself face to face with one of Asami’s former lovers, and gets some (unsolicited) advice. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before Takaba is kidnapped. Buchou is Japanese for section chief/editor. Or so my Japanese translator friend tells me.

 

When they arrive, Club Arryn is already packed full of bodies undulating against each other to the rhythm of the pulse-pounding beat of the music from the live band and the pulsating psychedelic lights overhead. Takaba winces, already feeling a headache coming on, made worse by the nauseating miasma of sweat, smoke, alcohol, and sex that permeated the club. She had hoped her ‘send-off’ party would be held in some quiet restaurant, but her editor led them here, and being the ‘guest of honor’, Takaba could do little else but follow.  
  
Not really an appropriate place for a send-off, considering that she can’t drink alcohol — okay, her doctor allowed her two glasses a week, but still, better safe than sorry — and party too much as Takaba’s about twenty-three weeks pregnant (and finally starting to _really_ show), the primary reason she’s quitting work in the first place (though she cited family matters and a hankering to go back to studying as her official reasons for quitting).  
  
But her (soon-to-be former) co-workers, of course, don’t know about that, so. Here she is.  
  
Her editor, Hakuba Sara, must be a VIP in the club, judging from the deferential manner they are treated. A deep bow from the manager himself greeted them the moment they stepped into the club, and he personally escorted them up the winding stairs to a partially hidden and soundproofed mezzanine that overlooked the dancing crowd — the Eyrie, the manager called it.  
  
As they settle into the plush leather seats, drinks are served immediately: a glass of deep red claret for her editor and a couple of colorful martinis for her two other co-workers, Michiko and Keiko.  
  
“What’s your drink, Takaba-kun?” Hakuba-buchou asks her, leaning back against the cushions, claret held elegantly in one slim hand.  
  
“A virgin Bloody Mary,” she mutters back. Her editor raises a brow at her choice, but doesn’t comment further.  
  
Takaba glances about, noting her co-workers’ flushed, excited faces, so different from her growing exhaustion (and headache and hunger), and inwardly sighs.  
  
It’s going to be a long night.  
  
\------  
  
“So,” Takaba’s editor drawls out thirty minutes later (and after two more glasses of claret to Takaba’s still unfinished virgin Bloody Mary), an oddly intent look in her eyes. “What are your plans? Are you going back to investigative photojournalism after this?”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Takaba doesn’t even hesitate. No matter what, investigative photojournalism remains to be one of her passions, her truth. “I’ll probably go on a freelance again until things settle down in the family, then I’ll try for a permanent post.”  
  
“I thought you’d be going back to studying,” Michiko, one of their writers, says, and then lets out a sigh. “I know _I_ want to. If only to shove it to my bastard of a professor who told me I don’t need to get an MA because ‘I’m getting married and having babies anyway’.”  
  
“What an asshole,” Takaba says before she could stop herself, and Michiko laughs. “But yeah, I do plan to go back to school eventually. I’ve listed course I’ve liked so far — I’m thinking either media studies or cultural anthropology and maybe English language ones as well.” She has a plan shaping up in the back of her mind, still in its bare bones, but at least something to look forward to after the baby’s born and things have calmed down a little. Maybe a little optimistic of her, but it’s _something_.  
  
“How tenacious of you, Takaba-kun,” her editor says with a strange inflection in her voice that makes Takaba wonder if she is teasing her.  
  
“Thank you,” she replies, politely enough, despite suddenly being uncomfortable, a feeling she’d been experiencing the last couple of weeks from her editor — a strange vibe from her that had never been there before. It isn’t anything overtly hostile or even creepy, but has just enough oddness that it makes Takaba a little uneasy — odd because, for most part, despite their varied taste and backgrounds, she and her editor got on well.  
  
Much to her surprise, Takaba had somewhat enjoyed working under Hakuba-buchou’s fiercely demanding and exacting guidance. She isn’t exactly the Devil in Prada — she prefers Chanel, for one thing (she’s wearing one now, a vintage ivory and black boucle suit) — but she comes very close. Takaba’s drive and willingness to accommodate and even go around her oft-times (almost) superhuman demands impressed her, and they established a solid (even sometimes supportive), professional rapport.  
  
So it is strange, that there would be tension between them now, when she’s leaving. Unless Hakuba-buchou is disappointed in her or something, for pausing her professional career to take care of family matters, but her editor never gave that impression on her. So what in the world is going on?  
  
Her thoughts are interrupted when Keiko lets out an excited little shriek. “Ohhh, look! Look! The owner is here,” she says, pulling open the sliding window and leaning so far out the railing Takaba feared she’d topple and crash down to the frenetic crowd below. “He’s gorgeous!” Beside her, Michiko is craning her neck as well, with such a flush on her face it was visible even under the club’s lights.  
  
Curious, Takaba looks over, and sees Asami, impeccably dressed as always (...and wearing the houndstooth scarf she made for him for Christmas around his neck, huh), surrounded by a few of his men, an inscrutable look in his face, standing near the entrance to the club.  
  
 _Oh_. She didn’t know this is one of his clubs. _Does he know I’m here?_ She’ll probably find out soon enough. For now, she joins her co-workers (and it seems, the rest of the club) in observing Asami.  
  
As Asami and his men make their way through the sea of people, heads swivel fast to turn to his direction, their owners’ probably suffering whiplash as a result. Amidst the wave of bodies on the floor, Asami manages to stand out. Maybe it’s the way he moves, with that sleek, dangerous grace of a predator, or the way he carries himself with the absolute, domineering confidence that he is the Master of All He Surveys.  
  
As if in response to this air, the crowd parts, as the water of the Red Sea did before Moses, giving him space even without his men needing to ‘urge’ the crowd. Takaba spots Kirishima close behind him, carrying the ubiquitous suitcase, while the club manager all but trips himself over behind him, babbling something that Asami doesn’t seem to be paying attention to. A few pull out phones and snaps a few stolen shots of Asami, who don’t seem to take note of them at all.  
  
 _Feh_. Takaba snorts to herself in disgust. No wonder Asami’s ego got to its present monstrous size, with everyone fawning over him like that. The man really needs to be taken down a peg or two. _Show off_ , she thinks. He could have just used the VIP entrance and avoided the crowds. But no, he had to strut through the packed dance floor like an arrogant cock.  
  
Takaba is about to step back when Asami passes near them, not wanting to be seen, but before could they disappear out of each other’s line of sight, Asami looks up, and meets her eyes with an amber-eyed, predatory gaze, his lips briefly curling to a smirk.  
  
A frisson of (unwanted) desire shoots up from the base of her spine and spreads across her nerves at the contact, making her pulse race, her mouth suddenly dry, heat curling low in her belly. She bites her lip and looks away, and finds Hakuba-buchou watching her with narrowed, speculative eyes over her wineglass.  
  
“He’s so hot, isn’t he?” Keiko says from behind her. She flops back to her place in the sofa with a dreamy smile. “Asami Ryuuichi.” She says the name as if it were a prayer. “God. Men who look like that shouldn’t exist.”  
  
Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Takaba lets out an amused little huff at Keiko’s words. She has never really thought much about Asami’s looks before; Takaba tends to pay more attention to Asami’s personality and business activities more than anything else, now that she thinks about it.  
  
She’ll concede to Asami’s ‘hotness’, though. In her job as a photographer, Takaba’s seen very good-looking men before, Greek statues made flesh, with their callipygian physiques and Apollo’s belts, though never quite Asami’s level of…animal beauty and sensuality, or with that kind of inhuman confidence and arrogance that comes to Asami as naturally as breathing.  
  
“I would happily suck that man’s cock for a whole day.” Takaba chokes a little in her drink at Michiko’s bluntness. Oblivious to Takaba’s distress, Michiko adds, “He looks like if you licked him he’d taste of cognac, Cuban cigars, and sex.”  
  
For a moment, Takaba’s mind goes blank, and then, before she could stop herself, she mentally goes over what Michiko said (though her mind shies away from thinking about sucking Asami off the whole day — her mind can only cope with only so much amount of _what the utter fuck_ in a day, and she’d already filled her quota with this conversation).  
  
Asami prefers Scotch whiskey, a pricey single-malt Macallan he drinks neat and burns pleasantly down the throat. He smokes spicy-sweet Dunhills — well, not since her pregnancy, at least not in Takaba’s presence. And well, sex. Well. That one she’d agree with Michiko. _Why am I even thinking this?_  
  
(Privately, Takaba thinks Asami tastes quite more complex — salt and musk with hints of bergamot from sweat and sex, notes of honey and spice and fire and peat from the Scotch, and, most of all, smoke and ash from cigarettes and bittersweet of the poison nicotine — all in all, potent, addictive, and corruptive.)  
  
“So what do you think of him, Takaba-kun?” A little lost, Takaba stares for a moment at Hakuba-buchou, who looks back at her with a strange smile Takaba is finding increasingly disconcerting. “Asami Ryuuichi, I mean.”  
  
 _He’s an asshole_ , is her first thought. But of course she couldn’t say that. “I didn't realize you could _taste_ sex,” she says dryly. Michiko and Keiko laugh at that. Takaba then makes a show of considering her words. “I think he’s good looking enough, but he probably has the worst personality,” she eventually says, as casual as possible. Briefly, she wonders if Asami has this room bugged. Well, fuck him if it is. They do say listeners never hear any good of themselves. “Guys like that always are.”  
  
“Guys like that?” Michiko says, cocking her head to one side.  
  
Takaba shrugs. “You know the type, those guys who want to control and dominate everything about your life.”  
  
Keiko only lets out a trilling, wicked little laugh. “Oh, he can dominate me all he wants. He’d probably make me enjoy it.”  
  
 _He would. And then he’ll make you beg for it_. Takaba desperately tries not to lose her shit in front of her co-workers. No need to make things more awkward than they already are. People fawn over your lov–the father of your unborn son is a strange, strange experience.  
  
“Sadly, he’s out of our league,” Michiko says mournfully, before turning to Hakuba-buchou with a wide, knowing smile. “Well, not all of us, I guess.”  
  
Shifting in her seat, Takaba gives her editor a quick (hopefully discreet) once-over. Hakuba-buchou is a rather beautiful woman, tall and willowy and graceful, with long black hair, snow-white skin and preternatural dark brown eyes, a former model with sophistication and class and wit, ambition and intelligence — just the type of woman Takaba would have expected Asami to get involved with.  
  
Hakuba-buchou only curls her lip upward, as if to smile, but not quite. Beside her, Keiko puts down her drink on the table and stands up, wobbling a little in her five-inch stiletto heels. “Well, pining for him isn’t going to do anything good for us, so who wants to go dancing? Miki-chan? Takaba-kun?”  
  
“I’ll pass.” She shakes her head, grimacing. “I’ve been told I dance like a beheaded chicken.”  
  
Keiko laughs cheerily and gives Takaba a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Aww, you can be that bad, Takaba-kun.”  
  
“You’re kind, but I am that bad,” Takaba replies with a self-depreciating grin. Kinda hard to dance when your ankle and feet are a bit swollen and you have a near three-pound unborn child in your stomach doing havoc on your balance. “But don’t let my bad dancing skills keep you from enjoying yourselves. Rock, er, on!”  
  
Flashing them ‘V’ signs, Keiko and Michiko goes off, giggling to each other as they do, bumping each other’s hips playfully. Takaba watches them leave with a smile. They weren’t that bad of a company, really. Or as co-workers. Hell of a lot better than some of the guys she worked with before.  
  
Her good mood vanishes when she feels eyes on her, making the hair on the nape of her neck stand up, and when she turns, she sees Hakuba-buchou looking at her with that odd intensity again. “Is something wrong, Hakuba-buchou?” she asks, trying to dispel the mounting tension between them. “Do you want to go dancing, too?”  
  
“Are you sleeping with Asami Ryuuichi?”  
  
The question comes so completely out of nowhere that Takaba, for a moment, is speechless with shock. _Where the fucking hell did she get this idea_ – “Did Mitarai say something stupid again?” Takaba asks, with a hint of exasperation, suddenly remembering Mitarai’s persistent crush on her editor. Telling Hakuba-buchou about Asami…why would he do that except only to spite her for the trick she pulled a while back with his drunken photos. God, she is going to kill that bearded asshole with her bare hands when she sees him again.  
  
Hakuba-buchou smiles. “He may have mentioned something on that subject.”  
  
Takaba fights the urge to facepalm. “Ugh, I’m going to strangle him.” She shakes her head. “Stupid rumors. Mitarai’s probably just being an ass as usual to piss me off. I can’t see why he has to talk to you about it.”  
  
Laughing, her editor says, “Don’t be too hard on him. It’s not his fault. You see,” her editor then sets down her glass with a deliberate little clink, and then leans forward toward her, “I asked him about those rumors.”  
  
“Oh.” Well, this is getting a bit strange. “Why?”  
  
“Idle curiosity. I wanted to know if they were true.” She tilts her head to the side, and she seems so…harmless then, if not for the gleam of speculation in her eyes. “There’s been talk that the real reason for your transfer to my department is because Asami, as your lover, didn’t approve of you doing dangerous investigative work.”  
  
 _What the flying fuck?_ “I didn’t know that.” Takaba sucks in a breath, feeling as if she’d been punched. How widespread are those rumors about her and Asami? God, that is a bit too close to the truth than she’s comfortable with. “Well, clearly these rumormongers don’t know the dangers of diva models running amok.” Takaba shrugs. “But you know why I transferred in the first place, and that–”  
  
“–has something to do with Asami Ryuuichi as well,” her editor cut in smoothly. “That actor’s stalker is rumored to have run afoul with Asami — something to do with guns, I believe — and as I recall, you got hurt in that incident.” She gives Takaba a small, almost apologetic smile. “You see why I got a little curious?”  
  
“I…see.” Her editor is remarkably well informed, far more so than her news editor, or even the cops. And far too inquisitive for some sort of ‘idle’ curiosity. Takaba is now truly wary, and when she replies, she makes her voice sound as dismissive as possible, light, almost teasing. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Hakuba-buchou, but as I told Mitarai-san, I’m not–”  
  
“I think you’re lying.” The calm expression on Hakuba-buchou’s face belies the sharpness of her words, cutting through Takaba’s bullshit with a single stroke. “There’s an adage you might be familiar with, Takaba-kun: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”  
  
“I believe there’s also another adage that you might be familiar with: Believe none of what you hear and half of what you see.” Takaba smiles sweetly at her editor. Oh, she could play this game, too. “You’ve been in this business for a long time, Hakuba-buchou. I’m sure you know this.”  
  
“That I’ve been in this business for a long time is why I can tell between lies and truths.” Fuck, but her editor’s playing hardball. “And I know you’re lying.”  
  
Despite her unease, Takaba calms herself and looks at her editor with puzzled exasperation. “Why are you so invested on something that isn’t really any of your business, Hakuba-buchou? Really, this sort of thing–”  
  
“Because Asami Ryuuichi,” her editor says in crisp, cool tones, “is a personal interest of mine.”  
  
It takes a moment for the words to register in Takaba’s mind. Then her eyes go wide as a chill shoots up her spine, raising goosebumps. “You’ve slept with him?” Takaba feels suddenly queasy at the thought, her stomach twisting into knots of anxiety.  
  
Her editor smiles like a cat caught in the cream, and leans back languidly on the sofa. “We’ve…fucked occasionally,” her editor says, studying Takaba with hooded eyes.  
  
Takaba wills herself not to show too much of her thoughts on her face, keeping her expression one of faint interest. “Ah.” She’d wondered how many lovers Asami had before her, and how long did they last. Surely he had many, though Takaba has never met or heard anyone’s name connected to Asami. Knowing him, he probably handled his affairs very discreetly.  
  
That her editor had been his lover is a bit of a surprise. Asami never mentioned it to Takaba, in all the time she’d been working under Hakuba-buchou. No doubt he found the situation amusing, the bastard.  
  
“I take it he’s never told you about me?” Hakuba-buchou says, divining her thoughts with an accuracy of a stab in the jugular. When Takaba doesn’t answer, her editor sighs. “How very like him. He probably found the situation far too amusing to say anything.”  
  
Regardless of Asami’s reason was in withholding this information from her, Takaba doesn’t want this conversation with her editor. “Hakuba-buchou,” Takaba starts to say, but her editor cuts her off.  
  
“Let’s skip through the denials, shall we, Takaba-kun? I find them very tedious.” She then regards her with a serious expression Takaba had never seen before on her face, her eyes boring into her. “You’re a sweet kid, Aki, if a little naïve. And I do like you. So let me break one of my own personal rules and give you some much needed advice.”  
  
She further leans over, and her lips almost brush against the shell of her ear, breath warm and smelling of wine and roses. She speaks to Takaba in a mellifluous voice loud enough to be heard over the muffled din of the club, her fingers pressing lightly on her arm, an intimate touch that makes Takaba’s skin prickle in uneasiness. Her voice is full of gentle kindness that her blunt words lacked. “Don’t think you’re special. You’re not. He may make you feel like you are, but you aren’t. He just likes to pick up little pets every now and then. In time, he’ll get tired of you and discard you.”  
  
Takaba says nothing; she finds herself suddenly hyperaware of the heavy weight on her belly, underneath her heart, her and Asami’s unborn son, pressing against her ribs, her lungs, making it a little hard to breathe. She wonders how Hakuba-buchou would react, if she were to know of her condition, if she would say the same thing she’s telling her right now.  
  
Takaba has never flattered herself to think she was the only one Asami’s been fucking. Or ever fucked or will fuck in this world. So maybe she isn’t special, but she’ll be damned if she lets Asami treat her as if she’s inconsequential. She wants say that to her editor, but she held her tongue.  
  
There’s also this dark, possessive part of her that wants to tell her editor that yes, she’s sleeping with Asami, she’s living with him, and that she’s carrying his child, and no, while Asami is bastard, he’s not completely pure evil as people think he is if only to see the look on her face. Melodrama, unfortunately, isn’t one of Takaba’s forte.  
  
Hakuba-buchou slides back to her seat, and Takaba breathes a little easier. “Don’t get yourself too attached and expect too much from him.” Her lips curve up to a strange smile. “Do enjoy the time you have with him, but always keep what I told you in mind.”  
  
“Is this what happened to you?” Takaba couldn’t help but blurt out. “Did you expect too much?”  
  
Hakuba-buchou laughs, but Takaba thinks her laughter is touched with a strange sort of bitterness, the kind of laugher from someone very wise and weary of the world. “No, Takaba-kun. I knew exactly what I was getting into.”  
  
“So are you still sleeping with him?” Takaba asks, surprising herself with the boldness of her question.  
  
There’s a pregnant pause, and for a brief moment, all Takaba could hear is the blood rushing in her ear and the rapid beat of her heart as she waits for Hakuba-buchou’s answer. But she wills herself to meet Hakuba-buchou’s eyes with a steady gaze, and not flinch away no matter what her answer is.  
  
“No,” Hakuba-buchou says abruptly. It makes Takaba wonder how truly deep her feelings for Asami had gone, despite her assertions. “We’re not.”  
  
“I see.” Takaba firmly resolves to ignore the relief she felt at the answer. “So. Aside from discarding me when he’s finished with me, what other terrible things do you think he’ll do?”  
  
Hakuba frowns at her lighthearted tone, and makes a moue of discontent. “I don’t think you have any idea what he’s capable of, Takaba-kun. He could ruin every aspect of your life — your career, your relationships.”  
  
Takaba chokes back the urge to laugh hysterically. Fuck but that really pisses her off, that people assume _she doesn’t understand_. Of course she does. Maybe there are things she doesn’t quite get yet or finds difficult to acknowledge, but she’s seen and experienced enough to know and understands the consequences of being with Asami. “Well, um, if you say so. Thank you for your advice,” she says, sucking in another calming breath, “but I think you’re mistaken, Hakuba-buchou.”  
  
Hakuba-buchou raises her brows. “Mistaken?”  
  
“I’m not his new pet,” Takaba says with a firm shake of her head. This one she will _make_ sure of. “I don’t know who has told you that, but that’s not true.”  
  
“Takaba–”  
  
She holds up her hand to silence her. Takaba’s had enough of this. “No. Listen to me, Hakuba-buchou. I understand your concerns. I understand them very well.” Gods know, she’s spent many sleepless nights thinking about them. Leaning forward, Takaba continues, voice low and intent, “Look, trust me. I know how much of a terrible man Asami Ryuuichi is. You have no idea how fucking well I know that.” Her lips curl into a grim smile, remembering that those early months of their…acquaintance, letting her pent-up issues and feelings on that bleed into her words. “You’ll find no greater ally in thinking he’s an asshole than me. I have no intention of letting a man like that get the better of me.”  
  
She leans back on the sofa, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I don’t even know why people would think he’d be interested in me, anyway. I’m not exactly supermodel gorgeous here, you know, or have any sort of social standing.”  
  
For several moments, her editor doesn’t speak, and they stare at each other, both intent and determined. Finally, to Takaba’s relief, her editor is the first to look away, her attention going back to her glass of wine. Takaba wills herself not to slump too hard on the sofa. Fuck but this conversation is draining the energy out of her, not a great thing for an already hungry pregnant woman.  
  
But there’s no respite, as apparently her editor isn’t finished. “You may think I’m doing this out of spite and jealousy, but that’s not why.” Her editor gives her a long, steady look, her eyes steely. Oddly enough, despite everything, Takaba doesn’t think she’s lying. “You have a lot of talent and promise. It would be a sad thing if were all derailed by…this.”  
  
“ _I_ would be very disappointed in myself if I let some guy derail me from _my_ plans,” Takaba says, with a faint smile. “Thank you for your concern, Hakuba-buchou, and if he ever _does_ approach me, I’ll ask advice from you on how to torment him. But I really, _really_ don’t want to fucking talk about him, and I’m sick of people asking me about him. I also do not appreciate my name being dragged through the mud with him. The gods only know how much trouble that’s going to cause me.”  
  
Then Takaba stands up, brisk and steady and ramrod straight, chin raised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have need of the bathroom.” Then, without waiting for a response, she heads for the door, sliding it open. The near-deafening sounds of the clubs roars in her ears as she does, and she inwardly flinches. Belatedly, she realizes the Eyrie has its own private bathroom, but fuck it if she’s spending another minute in the same room with her editor.  
  
She’s barely out of the Eyrie when her editor calls out, “I still don’t believe you, Takaba-kun.”  
  
Takaba doesn’t look back, and firmly closes the door behind her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Barely two minutes on the dance floor, Takaba’s already lost and confused — and feeling slightly claustrophobic and nauseous from the feel and smell of sweat-slicked bodies pressing against her, some more insistently and amorous than most.  
  
When she spots the barely visible neon sign for the bathrooms, she’s deeply relieved, and she makes her way there with purposive, no-nonsense steps that spell painful death for anyone who dares stop her. Somehow, her deadly aura pierces through the alcohol- and drug-addled mind of the dancers, and they give way to her.  
  
And then when she does finally reach the bathroom, an oblivious idiot with a ridiculous Mohawk bars her way with his arm, and then reaches out and tries to grope her.  
  
Fuck _that_.  
  
Moving with surprising deftness for someone in her condition, she sidesteps his grabby hands, and then drops him to his knees with a brutal kick in the groin that surely would result in blunt testicular trauma. The man writhes on the floor, mouth hung open and silently crying, curled up in a fetal position and clutching his hopefully now useless genitals.  
  
Stepping around his pathetic form, she continues to head for her destination, but then a heavy hand falls on her shoulder.  
  
 _Oh for fuck’s sake_. Takaba whirls around, ready to punch the daylights out of the asshole, but lands one on a palm instead — one that belonged to a familiar face. “Gor–Suoh-san?”  
  
“Takaba-san,” Asami’s hulking, stone-faced bodyguard says in his deep, deadpan voice. “Are you all right?”  
  
 _No, I am not_ , Takaba thinks, but doesn’t say so. She takes a deep breath instead, and manages a thin smile. “I’m fine.” She casts a withering glance at her would-be groper, who is still twitching on the floor. “Could you get rid of that, please?” she says, then hastily adds, “Don’t hurt him further, just…kick him out, or something.” She scans the crowd, trying to spot familiar faces, hoping none of her co-workers saw her, and thankfully finding none. “Nice crowd you have here.”  
  
Suoh gestures to someone, and a black-suited guy steps out from the crowd and grabs the man and hauls him away as if he were a sack of potatoes. Takaba inwardly winces at the treatment, but doesn’t say anything about it. “Is he still here?” she asks, shifting her attention back Suoh.  
  
“Yes. Asami-sama still has some business to look over, but he asks you to join him in the office.”  
  
Takaba rolls her eyes at Suoh’s words. _Ask_. As if Asami ever did. _Ordered_ , more likely. “I would rather go home, actually.” Because at this point, after what happened at the Eyrie, Takaba isn’t sure how she’ll face Asami.  
  
“Asami-sama will go home with you as soon as he’s finished with business.” Suoh gives that look that tells her that Asami will not be taking no for an answer, and neither will he. “We’ve ordered some food for you in his office. I believe you haven’t eaten yet?”  
  
Takaba sighs. “Fine. Let’s go.” Then, thinking of the unruly crowd and her editor high in the Eyrie with a good view of the dance floor, she asks, “Is there an alternate route to the office that would bypass these dancing idiots?”  
  
Thankfully, there turned out to be one, and she is led to Asami’s office in relative peace and secrecy. By the time they reached the door, though, Takaba’s uneasiness returns, as well as her earlier anger. It’s too late to back out now, though, and when Suoh opens the door for her, Takaba has straightened her shoulders and put her game face on.  
  
The moment she spots Asami, though, sitting at the desk and serenely going over papers, Takaba has a brief fantasy of picking up the nearest chair and hurling it at him, screaming, “You slept with my boss and didn’t tell me, you asshole! And I’m not your fucking pet or property!” like a fucking hormonal pregnant banshee from hell.  
  
Fortunately for Asami, what happened instead is that Takaba got hit with her earlier nausea like a punch in the gut, and, turning quickly to Suoh, demands, “Where’s the bathroom?”  
  
She reaches the sink barely in time, throwing up bile for most part. Closing her teary eyes, chest heaving from exertion, she doesn’t look up as she rinses her mouth when the door opens, though she starts when a warm hand descends on the nape of her neck and starts rubbing soothingly. “You should have eaten something earlier.”  
  
If she weren’t wrung out from throwing her guts up, Takaba would have rolled her eyes at Asami, stung by his rebuke. “I did eat a bit. I thought we were going to some restaurant, not a club. Can we please not blame me anymore? I’m feeling guilty as is.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “God, why don’t you have food served in here?”  
  
Asami lets out a chuckle. “Because this is a club, not a restaurant. People come here for a different purpose.” Asami continues to massage the back of her neck, long, strong fingers slow and steadily stroking the base of her scalp. This time, Takaba’s eyes do roll back, it felt so good, and feels a little embarrassed when she gives a little groan. “Do you feel better now?” he asks, sounding amused, teasing her.  
  
“If you keep doing that, I may just fall asleep on your sink,” Takaba murmurs. She closes her eyes and bites her lip to hold back a moan when Asami’s thumb presses against that sensitive spot behind her ear, and tries to get some semblance of coherency to keep this from escalating further. “I feel much better now, thank you,” she says, face flaming at the odd breathlessness of her voice.  
  
“Good.” Takaba makes an involuntary noise of protest when Asami removes his fingers, but then shiver when he places a kiss on her nape, his other hand sliding down to the curve of her swollen belly in that infuriating possessive way of his. “Eat your food before it gets cold. And then we’ll go home,” he tells her, breath warm against the shell of her ear, pressing his body against hers, momentarily filling her sensitive senses with his heat and of his scent — the sharp scent of _salt and musk with hints of bergamot from sweat and sex_ — before stepping away.  
  
Takaba watches silently as Asami leaves the bathroom, her hand touching the spot on her neck where Asami kissed her. She stands there for a while, her mind going back to what happened in the Eyrie. Loathe as she was to admit it, what her editor said raises questions about her place in Asami’s life that she couldn’t simply ignore.  
  
For most part, her place in Asami’s life has been something she’d never been quite sure of, something entirely clarified in clear, concise ways (on her part, at least). To most people, she’d be considered his mistress. His woman. Or his slut or whore, as some of Asami’s enemies have told her to her face.  
  
As for Asami himself, he’d called her his lover, his property, with emphasis on _his_ and all the possessive connotations with it. Asami has always been very clear on _that_. _Mine,_ he’d always say as he imprints himself on her ( _to the very marrow of her bones_ , she thinks sometimes), and perhaps to him, that was that. There is no need for anything else.  
  
\------  
  
 _Don’t think you’re special. You’re not._  
  
Her editor’s words echo in her head, and Takaba can’t help but mull over them. For the longest time, she’s told herself it didn’t matter if she wasn’t ‘special’ in Asami’s eyes, if she was simply just a passing phrase. It was never a goal for her, or something that she wanted.  
  
Oh, Takaba’s thought about it, wondered she had what it would take to capture Asami’s heart, but she’d always tried her best to dismiss such thoughts. If Fei Long with all his beauty and power wasn’t able to do it, how the hell could she, a mere upstart photographer, even come close?  
  
Why should she even want it in the first place? Asami is a controlling, manipulative pain in the ass, antithesis to everything she believes in. Why the hell would she want someone like that in her life?  
  
Months ago, before all of this, all she wanted was to get Asami out of her life as soon as possible (maybe by catching him in the act of committing nefarious deeds and having him arrested). Being with him was never a goal for her, or something that she wanted. She’d denied all accusations of her being owned by Asami fiercely, resisted every attempt of his to limit her independence, and actively avoided being dependent on Asami. She tried her damned best, too; she’d kill anyone who would say otherwise.  
  
And yet, here she is, pregnant with Asami’s child, living with him, and with plans to raise their child with him. How did it come to this, Takaba hasn’t quite figured out. Only that in the end, despite everything that’s happened and what she knew, she chose this.  
  
\-------  
  
Food turned out to be excellent, grilled herbed chicken with baked sweet potatoes and strawberries and cream for dessert. Takaba, famished beyond belief, settles comfortably at the sofa, resolves not to upset herself further with what happened tonight, and tucks into the food, ignoring the amused look Asami gives her every now and then.  
  
(In fact, she’s been ignoring pretty much all of the looks Asami’s been throwing her the moment she came in — she refuses to be drawn into any further conversation today. She has quite enough of that shit.  
  
In hindsight, she should have known such behavior would only raise red flags and make Asami more curious.)  
  
Too engrossed in polishing off the strawberry and cream (which was fucking delicious), Takaba doesn’t notice Asami’s approach until he’s taken hold of her hand, the one with fingers sticky with cream and strawberry, and slowly licks them clean.  
  
Sparks of heat skitter up her spine as Takaba, mesmerized, watches Asami’s tongue peek through the gaps of her fingers, sweeping over slick-sticky cream. Before she could protest, he then takes them into his warm mouth, and instead Takaba bites her lip to ride out the shivers that wrack her body at Asami’s touch, the glide of tongue and sweet suction. Flush with sudden want, she offers very little resistance when Asami’s lips move to her own, coaxing her mouth open with a lazy lick on her lips, and then kissing her with near bruising force, plundering her mouth thoroughly. When they part, Takaba’s a little lightheaded. “Stop distracting me,” he says, voice low and amused, “or we’ll never get home.”  
  
That cuts through the hazy fog in her brain, and she pushes him away. “I’m distracting you? I’m just eating. Don’t blame me for your crazy pervert fantasies.” Takaba holds up her hand. “No need to describe those fantasies to me, please. I do not want to throw up again.”  
  
Asami only offers a wicked smile in reply that tells her she’s probably in those fantasies quite often, and goes back to his desk to do his work, and mercifully leaves her alone to finish the rest of her meal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Happy New Year to all. ^^


	3. Chapter 3

After dinner, she goes back to the washroom to clean up, locking the door behind her this time to keep Asami out. As she bent over the sink to watch her hands, the necklace Asami gave her for Christmas slips out of her dress and dangles out.

Quickly drying her hands, she takes hold of the pendants to tuck them under her dress. The diamond petals of the sakura flower glitter under the lights, and she pauses. Almost absentmindedly, her thumb traces the outlines of the sakura tree and its single blossom, then the smooth disk beneath it.

Takaba closes her eyes as her guts twist at the sudden rush of emotions, remembering the warmth of Asami’s breath and fingers as he traced the edge of the disc when he suggested she has it engraved with their names. In a few months, their son will be born, and she will have their names engraved on the edge of the disc — her name, Asami’s, and their son’s, a family tree of sorts.

Unbidden, her thoughts go back to what her editor said to her of Asami. _“Don’t get yourself too attached and expect too much from him.”_ Takaba chuckles humorlessly. _I suppose she’d be pleased I followed her advice in_ some _way_. Of all the things Takaba imagined of how things would go with Asami, creating a family was the least of what she expected. As for being too attached … well.

Takaba’s been in love before, just once.

Before _him_ , there were crushes and infatuations — the grim-faced, thick-browed captain of the baseball team in middle school who showered her with sweets and Pocky, the sly and sharp-tongued but angelic-faced school idol at her high school who was her first kiss, her cupid’s bow lips that tasted of strawberry-vanilla lip gloss, saccharine sweet, even a cute, clumsy teacher or two that always smiled at her and encouraged her to do well, hands warm and reassuring on her shoulder — people she’d cared about, people that have caught her wandering eye and held her attention, sometimes for only a short while, sometimes for a long time.

In university, she met _him_. Takaba thinks she’d loved him from the moment she saw him, sent her heartbeat racing when he smiled at her and held her hands and said her name. Four years older than her, with quirky forked brows and serious, quiet brown eyes that sparked with passion when he talked of the starry heavens, of the vast worlds and universes beyond their tiny own, of exploding supernovas and the gaping maws of black holes.

Her memories of their romance come in snapshots, in fragments of sound. Huddled together in a quite corner at a university party where they first met, poring over a map of the night sky for hours, the wild cacophony of the party but a distant murmur to them. Hands entwined as they braved together a sudden storm of sakura petals, laughing and running like children as their petals spun around, brushing against their skin, velvet soft. Staring at the stars at as they lay on a blanket as he pointed out and named the constellations across the midnight sky, her head pillowed on his shoulder, lulled to sleep with the warmth of his voice, the feel of his breath against her ear, the steady beat of his heart. The tip of his ears as red as pomegranate seeds when she suddenly kissed him underneath the stained-glass canopy of autumn, his lips tasting just as sweet, his pulse stuttering beneath her fingertips on his wrist. Him placing a wreath of flowers around her head, crowning her his queen, his words a bare whisper compared with the roar of blood in her ears. On one knee before her, ring in one trembling hand, his face and heart full of heartbreak when she said _No_.

(If asked now, Takaba couldn’t say why she refused his proposal. Everything had been perfect — they were great together, and he loved her and she loved him. She should have said yes. But when that moment came, even before he said the question in full, her lips were moving to say no.)

It took a year for them to start talking to each other after their break-up, another year before they settled to a comfortable friendship, with occasional emails and meet-ups and trips. But the memory of that moment haunts her sometimes, the way he’d _looked_ at her, as if she had crushed every hope of happiness in his life with her refusal, with that single word. Until then she had never thought herself capable of inflicting such pain on anyone she loved. It was a revelation of self she’d never expected, or wanted, but has since kept close to her heart.

After him were a smattering of dates she barely remembers, a hazy blur of memories and faces, like pictures that didn’t develop quite right, discarded without a second thought. It’s not that Takaba had become heartless or cruel. If anything she was the exact opposite — she even became friends with some and always parted amicably.

Simply put, for Takaba, work proved far more interesting and exciting than any sort of romantic entanglement. She focused all her energies in her craft, reveled in the sharp, heady rush of back-alley chases, the thrill of satisfaction of a surveillance and investigation well executed, the heart-pounding excitement of the image of her target in her viewfinder and captured in film, the fierce hunger and drive of wanting to do better in her art, to reach for the highest, to prove to herself (and others) that she could do it. In all that time, she’d never been happier, or been more alive.

Then, of course, she meets Asami.

And _everything_ changes.

 _Nothing_ , absolutely _nothing_ in her life and her experiences or relationships prepared her for Asami Ryuuichi. She doesn’t even have enough words to describe how much Asami affected her life. Asami isn’t so much as human as he is a walking assortment of natural disasters that wrecked havoc on everything he touched.

There are very little words for the overwhelming tide of emotions and feelings that scoured her to the very bones, laying her bare before him, that had reduced her many times to the most primal of urges and needs. He had shaken the foundations of many of her beliefs and views of the world, set aflame her hidden cache of desires into an unending conflagration that at times threatened to burn the heart out of her. Her memories of Asami are always alive and vivid, as bright as a newly forged sword’s edge and just as sharp, the accompanying intense emotions unsettling her and leave her bleeding at times, her heart beating as if it would burst from her chest. And yet she is drawn back to him again, and again, to that fucking maelstrom.

Takaba doesn’t blame her editor for warning her off. Asami should come with all sorts of warnings, to be approached only with as much armor and protection as possible, otherwise he will completely wreck you — both figuratively and literally. Of course, Takaba thinks ruefully, Asami did come with warnings. Takaba just … blithely ignored them and went “fuck it!” then dove headfirst into the fray.

As for her editor … part of Takaba is pissed at herself for dwelling on what she said. These matters were things she thought had been resolved with herself months ago. These shouldn’t be an issue now. She shouldn’t be dwelling at this so much.

Besides, Asami’s past relationship with her editor was the least of her worries. Part of the reason she agreed to be with Asami is to avoid too much stress. She did not need more stress now. What does it matter if Asami didn’t tell her about him dating her boss in the past? It’s not like she expected him to share his relationship history with her. She certainly doesn’t want him to expect she’d tell him her own past relationships, and neither is she inclined to share those with him.

Perhaps the crux of the matter lies not on Asami sleeping with her editor, but what her editor had said: _Don’t think you’re special. You’re not_. Despite everything she’d said and thought in the past, the truth was that she wants to be _special_. To Asami.

Takaba doesn’t want this, never wanted this. In the past, it had been too easy to keep her distance, to keep away. But now, in these past few months of being together — probably long before she even got pregnant — as she knows more about _him_ , knows more about _herself_ , she realizes all the things she’d been telling herself are lies, an elaborate self-deception meant to keep her from falling deep and ending up hurting herself.

It’s a frightening realization, one she keeps close and hidden in her heart. She’s already far too vulnerable as is in her situation. No need to make her more so.

These are valid reasons for her concerns. After all, this is the man who had told her, _You do not have that kind of value_. Oh, she still remembers that, still remembers the sudden, wholly unexpected sharp stab of pain in her chest when she first heard those words. They hurt then, and they still hurt now.

But even so, she feels vaguely guilty, doubting him. Asami has given her very little reason to. After all, soon after he’d spoken those words, Asami moved heaven and earth to rescue her from Fei Long despite his own unhealed wounds, putting himself at much risk. In the past few months, Asami has been very supportive, always there for her and their child, ready to accommodate her needs and wants, no matter how outrageous they sometimes get. He bought a house near her parents for her and their child, and they moved in there _together_. He comes home to her almost every day (except when work gets in the way, and that’s only when it’s something truly urgent).

There are a _hundred_ little things — things she's noted even before her pregnancy, even before Fei Long kidnapped her and her rescu — like the way he touches her, the way his hands sometimes hold her with something like reverence and tenderness beneath the usual possessiveness, the way his mouth makes that little odd quirk of a smile when he’s amused and indulgent with her, even if at times what she does completely puzzles him, the way he looks at her with what could only be warmth when she thinks she’s not looking. Hundreds of little things she’d never thought would ever come from him and directed at her. The way he reveals bits of pieces of himself to her, whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

Takaba may not always be good at discerning Asami’s motives, and she will probably always have her doubts, but she thinks, as fucking crazy as it sounds, if his actions are anything to go by, that, just like her, maybe, _maybe_ , Asami wants _this_ : wants her, their child, and a future with her, and, impossibly enough, a family with her. That she is, somehow, _special_.

 _Hah_. So much for her not to be “too attached.”

(Maybe that’s why she’s so fucking _scared_ sometimes, why she wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, her stomach heavy with dread, with some unnamed fear. Maybe that fear is that everything is all some strange dream, and she desperately wants that dream to be a reality.

But then she glances to her side and sees Asami sleeping beside her, feels his warmth pressed against her, his hands around her, and then she knows this is reality, her reality.)

In his place beneath her heart, their unborn son quickens, his movement strong and sure for someone so tiny, kicking hard in her womb. Shaking her head, she puts her hand on her stomach to calm him, and takes a deep, cleansing breath. He stills, and Takaba smiles. She tucks back the necklace into her dress, and then opens the door, stepping back into the office, where Asami waits for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Don’t mind me, this is me trying to get Takaba to sort of resolve her fucking feelings over the matter — man, dude, you brood a lot for someone so cheery. :P
> 
> People who follow me over at tumblr probably recognize the first part as something [I posted a while back](http://snapshotsinmyviewfinder.tumblr.com/post/34474443813/takabas-been-in-love-before-just) — yeah, I just expanded it a bit. I think of Takaba as someone who dated or went out every now and then (she’s a fun, outgoing girl!), but probably was too busy with work and found that more exciting than dating or anyone she met. Then of course she meets Asami.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks always to Eri-kun, who provides much needed encouragement and love and insight, as well as to Van and half-sleeping, who listened to me cry and cry about writing this part with much patience and understanding.

 

“I need to go back to my coworkers and say goodbye before we go.”

Asami raises a brow at Takaba, eyes narrowing a little as he watches her slowly stand up from the armchair beside his table, one hand braced on the armrest, the other on her belly. “Why?” he asks. He hadn’t miss the tension in her body when she’d first entered his office, or the tell-tale furrow between her brows Takaba has when she is upset and brooding over something — that ‘something’ no doubt stemming from a _particular_ coworker. One would think someone would avoid the person who had upset them, but then this is Takaba. “You can tell them by phone.”

Takaba gives him a disbelieving look. “They invited me over for a send-off party in _my_ honor. It would be incredibly _rude_ of me if I just left without thanking them in person.”

The way she holds herself right now, arms folded across her chest, shoulders stiff and mouth drawn to a thin line, tells him she’s not particularly keen to go back, and yet she’s still insisting to do so and prepared to fight for it, for some obscure reason Asami can’t fathom (or care for) at the moment. “There are too many people on the dance floor,” he says, in the calm and reasonable tones he knows Takaba finds infuriating. “It might be unsafe for you and the child to go out there again. If you _do_ insist on going, I’ll have both Suoh and Kirishima escort you to make sure you’re both safe.”

His reply gets him a glare from Takaba. Her lips part as if she was going to say something, probably a protest, but instead she bites her lower lip and takes a deep breath instead. “Fine. I’ll just call them.” And then she settles back to the armchair, pouting before pulling out her phone and actually calling her coworkers.

Not wanting to provoke her to leaving, because he knows Takaba would do that, if only to be … contrary, Asami hides his smirk, lowering his head and going back to his papers.

If there was anything he’d learned about Takaba, it was that while she would be as stubborn as a mule on matters involving her own self, but she was much quicker to accede when matters concerned the welfare of other people, and on this instance, their unborn child. Asami had ruthlessly, shamelessly used this knowledge as much as he could in these past few months, to much success — in one particular instance, regarding her work.

Asami is very pleased Takaba has resigned. Though her job in the Lifestyle section was significantly less dangerous than her previous one as an investigative photojournalist, it still exposed her to too many risks than he’s liked. Takaba had been resistant on giving up working, but was sensible enough to compromise and take on precautions she’d previously been vehemently against, such as guards and monitoring, for the sake of her safety and their child’s.

“No, it’s OK, I’m fine. I just had to leave a little early because my stomach acted up, you know how it is–”

Looking up from his documents, Asami regards Takaba once more with narrowed eyes. Takaba had been upset when she’d come in, her distress enough to induce nausea and vomiting (though this may also have been caused by lack of food), and he knows for certain who the person responsible for that is.

It had taken him a little effort to not have a pressing small talk with Hakuba right now and impress upon her forcefully why she shouldn’t meddle in his affairs. Takaba is none, and never will be, any of Hakuba’s business. She and Asami had parted in amicable, but very clear-cut terms, both of them aware of why and what they’re getting in their arrangement. Why she’d suddenly taken an interest in Takaba and interfered is a mystery.

But then he and Hakuba are similar in many ways, and perhaps, she had seen something in Takaba, just as he did, that compelled her to act … rashly. In her interests or Takaba’s he can’t tell, but he strongly suspects it is actually Takaba’s, which makes this all the more confounding.

Still. Takaba is _his_ , and he has no intentions of _sharing_. Nor is he in any mood to tolerate any kind of interference that affects Takaba and their unborn child’s welfare.

He frowns at the thought of his protectiveness. Pregnancy seems to have made his emotions regarding Takaba more … intense. Perhaps it is because Takaba seems more and more vulnerable to him as her pregnancy progresses. Her pregnancy isn’t very noticeable to many, but to Asami it seems all too prominent at times. He still marvels how others can’t _see_ , not notice the growing swell of Takaba’s belly or the strange glow of her skin and the sheen of her hair, the different way she hold and centers herself in her movements, all tell-tale hints of the life growing within her. How Takaba could hide it all with remarkable ease remains a mystery to him.

It is no mystery, though, why he feels … irritated that Takaba needs to hide her pregnancy. He wants the world to know that she is _his_ , that she’s carrying _his_ child.

It has been … exhilarating and bemusing, his whole experience with his impending fatherhood so far. His protectiveness over Takaba’s well-being and his possessiveness over her are not wholly unexpected, but that these sentiments would extend over their yet unborn child with near the same fierceness surprised him.

He’d never thought of himself as one to get overly attached so easily, and yet, on the very first moment Asami’d seen that tiny heartbeat, he’d found himself helplessly enamored, filled with the need to protect Takaba and their child from all that could hurt them (and even perhaps, at times, from himself). It’s a feeling that grows stronger every day, especially now that he could feel the movement of their child within Takaba’s belly, a mere fluttering of movement, but far more real and tangible than any ultrasound image.

“I don’t need help going home, _yes_ , I’m fine, I can go home on my own, don’t worry,” Takaba says into the phone, sounding a touch exasperated. “Please tell her not to worry.”

Asami’s lips curve to a small, private smile at that familiar tone. Takaba has never taken well to any sort of coddling, or any insinuation that she lacked the ability to handle herself. Though Takaba may look delicate and vulnerable, the straight, determined line of her back and shoulders, the upturned tilt of her chin, the defiant spark in her eyes, belies her appearance. Takaba is far more resilient and far, far stronger than what she appears to be, as she has proven time and time again, much to Asami’s fascination and admiration.

Takaba has been a constant surprise and delight, this whole time, living with her and knowing her. There had been concerns that they would get bored with each other from living together — ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ is a familiar adage — but her nearness has brought in more satisfaction and excitement and pleasure than he had ever imagined — the need and desire to have her close, to discover more about her, and watch her grow, had not diminished, and instead continues. Living together revealed facets of Takaba he had not known, expanded his knowledge of her of what kind of woman Takaba is, of what future and relationship they and could have.

(Fatherhood and family were things he’d viewed distantly, a vague and unnecessary idea for a far-off future. Even this level of involvement with another person was something Asami had not thought possible just several months ago. Takaba had come into his life as a force of nature, wild and unpredictable, and changed him and his life in ways he does not know _how_ but knows enriched him more).

“Yes, yes, I’ll see you around. I have to go now, bye!” Takaba’s words ends with a sharp inhalation of breath, almost of pain, then a grimace, and she slumps back on the armchair.

“Are you all right?” Asami asks, rising immediately, paperwork forgotten.

Takaba holds up a palm to him, and doesn’t speak for a moment, closing her eyes instead, her slim shoulders rising and falling as she breathes deeply and slowly. “I’m fine. Ish. Just a little back pain.” She smiles ruefully, rubbing her back, and then gently flicks the top of her stomach. “ _He’s_ getting big, and that’s putting a strain on my back. He’s been moving a lot and his kicks are getting stronger and that hurts a little.” Spreading her fingers flat on her belly, she sighs, “I’m so glad we’re not having twins. It runs in both sides of my family, and with _my_ luck…”

“Perhaps next time,” Asami says teasingly, though he watches her carefully (as he always does), gauging her reaction to his words, and checking if she’s still in pain.

Takaba huffs, annoyed, and glares at him. “ _Next_ time, _you_ do the carrying, then.” Then she shudders. “Or maybe not. You’d be _terrible_ with all that hormones in you.”

“I would imagine you’d be far more capable in childbearing than I would ever be,” Asami says with a small smile. He brushes his fingers against a lock of her hair, slow and caressing. “And far lovelier, and with more grace and dignity as well, I suspect.”

Takaba’s cheeks bloom with color, and then she looks away, muttering something too indistinct for him to understand. His fingers then wander to her cheek, thumb brushing against the warm, smooth skin, and he smirks when he feels her skin grow hotter and her body shiver from his touch.

Such simple things, and yet, _now_ , Asami wants to mark red that thin patch of skin at the juncture of her neck and jaw with his mouth and teeth, to lift her from her seat and push her against the wall and take her, to feel her warmth and inhale her scent, but he controlled himself, letting that thought pass with barely a change of expression on his face.

Such desires are not unusual — Takaba brings that out of him most of the time — but it’s even more frequent now, with her pregnancy. Takaba once accused him of having a pregnancy fetish; Asami thinks it has much to do with the pregnancy and its aspects being highly visible proof of his possession of Takaba, of her being _his_ , that turns him on so much. That Takaba in her pregnancy is so easily aroused and quite charming and delectable while so doesn’t help matters.

But as much as he’d want to fuck the bad mood out of Takaba now, Asami suspects whatever put her in this mood is best talked about, perhaps later at home.

( _Home_. How Asami came to have — even consider — one is not so much as a mystery but a pleasant surprise.)

With one last lingering caress, Asami withdraws his hand and turns back to his papers. He catches Takaba giving him a confused look, but she stays quiet as he finishes the last of his work.

_\------_

After a few more minutes of preparation and cleaning up, Takaba and Asami leave the club together, the obsequious manager seeing them out as they leave through a very private exit. Takaba ignores the curious glance the manager gives her, and follows Asami quietly, not even balking at the hand over the small of her back as he guides her into the car.

Takaba sits on the opposite side, as far away from Asami as the car would allow. For the rest of the ride, they travel in relative silence, Takaba gazing out the window, avoiding his gaze, posture stiff and unwelcoming.

The silence extends even after they arrive home, Takaba heading inside without so much even a backward glance. Asami watches her as she all but strides to the door and into their room. Takaba’s current mood … displeases him, though not with Takaba herself. He’s never been fond of Takaba being made unhappy by others — he much rather that she’s happy — though he’s not above teasing her and delighting in her reactions. He’s even less fond of it now, when her current mood is being angry at him, as that usually results in Takaba not wanting to be near, to be touched, or to be soothed by Asami, going even as far as attempting to sleep in another room.

Still, despite the risk of further infuriating Takaba, as soon as the door to their room is closed (and locked), Asami asks, “And how did your send-off party go?”

Takaba tenses for a moment, then pauses from removing her poncho and turns to him, face showing little expression. “Aside from the lack of food, it went fine. Great, even,” she replies as blandly as she could to shut down any further interest to continue the conversation.

Unfortunately for her, Asami is not so easily put off. He sits on their bed, loosening his tie and collar as he does. “Is that so?” Asami says, in a tone that clearly tells Takaba he knew far more than he was letting on.

She doesn’t rise to the bait, and instead turns away from him and returns to taking her poncho off, hanging it in the closet while continuing to answer in the same flat tone. “We talked about what I’m going to do after my family ‘emergency’ — if I’ll go to school for a Master or something like that — or if I’ll go back for investigative photojournalism.”

“And will you?”

Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes narrow at the challenging note in his voice. “Of course.” She holds his gaze, not backing down. “I’ll probably not go back to work immediately after giving birth, maybe take a few months off, but eventually, I will.”

“I see.” They’ve yet to have an extensive talk about the matter, but Asami knows photography and investigative journalism are not things Takaba would easily give up. They are, he has come to know, her passion and truth, and though Asami doesn’t understand at times, he’s learned to … tolerate them, even if the pursuit of them gets Takaba into far too many dangerous situations.

How Takaba gets into trouble even in the most innocuous of jobs continues to baffle him, however. He had thought being in the Lifestyle section would be less conducive to disasters, but he after the third mishap (this one involving stampeding models and horses) he conceded he was wrong: Takaba is a magnet for trouble, regardless of where you put her.

Speaking of trouble … “If that is what you’ve all talked about, why are you upset, then?”

“I’m not upset,” Takaba says sharply. Asami stifles a smirk when she scowls as she realizes she’d given herself away.

“You’re not?” Asami asks her sardonically. “You were throwing up. You only get nauseous and throw up when you’re anxious and upset.” Takaba tries to deny, protest, but Asami doesn’t let her, and he presses on, inexorable. “You’ve been avoiding looking at me, and you sat on the other side of the car. You only sit there when you’re angry at me over something.”

“Then why are you asking questions you already know the answer to?” She folds her arms across her chest, her face taut with tension. “Please tell me you didn’t eavesdrop on our conversation.”

Oh, Asami had been tempted, but he refrained from doing so. This one he’d rather get directly from Takaba. “I did not.”

“Yeah, right.” Takaba regards at him with a mixture of disbelief and irritation, and then abruptly glances away.

Saying nothing, Asami leans forward, steepling his fingers together as he watches Takaba debate internally whether to answer Asami’s question truthfully. It’s somewhat vexing, that Takaba even _hesitates_ to tell him. Is she _protecting_ Hakuba, despite their confrontation? _Why?_

“Does it really _matter_?” Takaba finally bursts out, rounding on him. “Like I said, it was–”

“It does.” Asami’s voice is sharper, all lightness gone, and it makes Takaba’s hackles rise, chin tilting up, hands clenching into fists as her body tenses. “I want to know what _she_ said to you.”

“Then get it directly from _her_. I’m sure she’d love to tell you,” Takaba _snaps_ , voice rising, finally losing her temper, eyes bright with anger as she strides forward, stopping only until she’s past arm’s length away from him. “Considering how she loved to tell me about the whole thing without me _prompting_ her, I think you’ll have an easy time getting the answers to your questions from _her_.”

“So you _were_ upset with what she said.” There’s no need to ask who _her_ is — they both know well who they’re referring to.

“I am not upset with what she said,” Takaba replies, speaking the words with forceful deliberation through clenched teeth. Then she pauses, taking in a deep breath. “She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know or … considered before.” Her voice, though calmer now, faltered a little at the end, the brightness in her eyes dimming for a moment, but then she shook her head. “It’s nothing, Asami. I was not upset over what she said. This,” she makes a quick, dismissive gesture to herself, “is just–just hormones.”

“Hormones.” Asami doesn’t bother disguising the flat disbelief in his voice. “Really.”

“Yes, _hormones_.” She pouts, then sighs and rubs the heel of her hand over her eyes. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“No.”

Another sigh. “I–Why are you even pursuing this?”

Asami reaches out and takes her by her wrist, firmly but gently pulling her to him. She resists for a moment, but eventually lets him tug her close until she’s standing mere inches in front of him. “I don’t like seeing you upset.”

Takaba gives him an incredulous look. “But you upset me _all the time_. It’s a hallmark of our relationship. Hell, _you’re_ upsetting me _now_.”

“This is different. Now,” he says, voice firm, his grip tightening, brooking no refusal, “what did she say to you?”

Takaba studies him briefly before letting out a long exhale, the fight going out of her. “My editor — well, ex-editor, now — told me you two were involved before.”

“I see.” He lets go of her wrist, and instead holds her by her hips, thumbs brushing against the curve of her hipbones. Looking up at her now-flushed face, he asks, “And then?”

“You know, I would really have liked knowing you dated my boss,” she says, deflecting. “Now everything is awkward and crazy.”

“Would it have been less awkward if you knew beforehand?” Asami asks her. “You had a wonderful working relationship with her.” And this was true, judging by the raves and praises about Hakuba Asami heard from Takaba when she came home for work; “Difficult, but great,” she’d always say about Hakuba when asked. “Would that have happened if you had known?”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” she snarks back. “And since you asks, yes, we also talked about you, mostly how much of a skeevy asshole you are — probably the only thing we both agreed on.”

“So you bonded over your mutual dislike of me.”

“Well, it’s not like I lied to her, did I? You _are_ a terrible man and you _are_ an asshole and I am NOT your pet.” She holds his gaze, eyes steely. “And at least my boss told me about your … thing. _You_ didn’t. But that’s not why I was … upset. I just hate it when people think that I don’t comprehend what–that I don’t _understand_.”

 _Ah_. Asami recognizes that look on Takaba’s face — frustrated but still fierce, unwilling to give up, ready for a fight. It is one she frequently wore whenever someone accused her of being naïve about Asami, something Takaba absolutely _loathes_.

 _Of course you don’t. You know very little of what you’ve gotten yourself into, of what I am capable of doing_. Hiding a smile, Asami wraps an arm around her waist, and despite her mutinous expression, she lets him draw her onto his lap, facing him, until her knees straddle his legs. This close he could smell her, an intoxicating combination of spices and citrus from her perfume and the sharp musk of her own scent. _I’ve told you before, that you’ll descend with me to the deepest layer of hell. I wonder if you’ve realized how deep you are now, if you ever even notice._

He doesn’t want her to be part of that side of his business — she is meant to be separate from all of it. He loves her open-heartedness and ingenuousness and innocence, her fierce, resilient spirit that seems to shine so brightly in the darkness. It would do no good to taint that innocence, that spirit, though he had been tempted at times in the past.

He knows better now. Asami has made sure Takaba knows little of the extent of his business and dealings, of what traps he had set her in, of the chains that bound her to him — all the means he has used and _will_ use to protect and keep her.

(And it is truly terrifying, the things he would and could do to protect and keep her.)

Although, Asami thinks, he shouldn’t be so quick and confident about his schemes and plans involving Takaba. If there’s anything he’d learned about her, she’s far too clever and persistent for her own good, prone to upsetting any plan, no matter how well plotted it is and to discovering what lies hidden. Perhaps in time Takaba will know the full extent of everything.

But not now.

He finds himself smirking at his thoughts, and Takaba looks at him suspiciously, and begins to shift in his lap as if to get off. Asami tightens his hold on her, one arm firmly around her waist, while he places his hand on the slight swell of her belly, idly stroking the bump in calming sweeping motions. He smiles when Takaba arch back a little, her eyes fluttering shut, when his hand drifts to lower, where the curve of her belly seems to begin, a spot made much more sensitive to touch by her pregnancy. “Is that the only thing you’re upset about? It has nothing to do with the other things she said?”

Her cheeks are tinged red when she opens her eyes at his question. “What? That I’m your new favorite pet?” She snorts, sounding amused. “Please. I’ve heard worse.” She pauses, and then glances away, her hands curling on her lap. Her tone remains light as she continues a heartbeat later, “I _did_ receive some excellent advice with regard to you, though. I was told that I should enjoy my time with you, but not get _too_ attached.” Her lips curve to a wry smile, but she still does not look at him. “After all, I shouldn’t … assume that I was special.”

Briefly, Asami feels rage course through him at Hakuba’s audacity to say such things to Takaba. But he quickly subdues it, setting it aside for later, not wanting to further alarm an already skittish Takaba. “Did you believe her?”

Takaba takes a few seconds to reply, still in that same cavalier tone. “It doesn’t really matter. All of what she said are moot. After all, I don’t even _like_ you, Asami.”

Raising one brow, Asami says, voice low, teasing, “Is that so? Not even a little?”

“Definitely not ‘even a little’.” She looks at him then, a strange spark in her eyes as she holds his gaze, and then suddenly she smiles, soft and sweet, but with a touch of wariness. “But then, if you think this,” she gestures to herself, to her thickening waist, in a way that seems to encompass her and everything between them, “is me _liking_ you, then I am afraid _you_ have problems regarding comprehension.”

_They stare at each other in silence for several moments, perhaps both of them caught off guard by Takaba’s sudden honesty. Asami certainly didn’t expect_ _this_ _confession. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Asami goes to the heart of the matter. It is only fair, after all. “Do you not consider yourself special, Aki?” he asks, never once removing his gaze from her._

_“Well, I certainly hope I am,” Takaba says, sounding exasperated, with him or herself, it was hard to tell by her tone, “because otherwise what the hell would this be?” She’s pale now_ , her eyes wide and dark, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t seen before (and it is _fascinating_ ), but there’s still that defiant tilt to her chin, the brilliant blaze in her eyes, as if she’s daring him to contradict her.

“Now who is having problems with comprehension?” Asami murmurs. His hands cup her face, fingers smoothing over her cheeks, before they curve down to her throat, wrapping around the slender column. “Look at me, Aki.” Takaba hesitates to obey, but then Asami’s thumbs are pressing firmly but gently against the thin skin at end of the curve of her jaw, forcing her to open her mouth in a gasp, to tilt her head back, and bare her throat and _look_ at him.

Takaba’s eyes remain preternaturally wide, pupils tiny, bottomless blue holes within summer seas. He could feel her pulse fluttering with the frantic beat of wings of a bird caught on fire against his fingertips — Asami has come to adores it, especially since after Takaba had been shot, the sound and feel of her heartbeat, a constant reassurance that she is alive — but he knows well that she’s not _afraid_ , and still very much trusting. Far _too_ trusting, in truth. How could she say she understands when she still trusts him so much?

“Whatever your former editor may have told you, there are but few things you must know and understand, Aki. First, you _are_ special.”

He smiles — he can’t help it, as he is suddenly filled with tenderness for this brave, strange, wild creature he has caught (and who have in turn unwittingly ensnared his very being — but turnabout is fair, Asami supposes). “I have been telling you a long time now, and you refuse to listen: I do not intend to let you go. You are _mine_ , and your place is _always_ with me.”

Takaba regards him with wide and searching eyes, trying to discern if Asami is telling the truth. Asami lets her, and after a long moment, she says, “You don’t deserve me, you know that.”

 _But you’re still mine, all the same_. “I am well aware.”

“Fine, then. As long as you’re aware,” she huffs, but there’s a tiny smile on her lips, and her cheeks are once again that charming shade of red.

Asami wants to tease her further, but instead he again places his hands over the gentle swell of her belly, where their unborn child lay, serene and still for now. Takaba hesitantly places one hand over his, and then entwines their fingers together but says nothing. “Feeling better?” he asks, quirking one brow up, rubbing his thumb against her wrist in soothing circles. Her pulse is slower than before, but still faster than normal, still … excited.

“Maybe.” She shifts in his lap again, attempting to get off, but Asami isn’t letting her go so easily. “Asami, what–”

His hands slide and curl into her hair, tangling the soft locks around his fingers, making her gasp. He pulls her down, captures that troublesome little mouth into a warm, deep kiss, his tongue licking wetly along the seam of her parted lips before sweeping possessively into sweetness of the heat of her mouth. He _devours_ her, claiming her moans, her whimpers as they slide their spit-slick mouths against each other again and again, Takaba winding her arms around his neck as Asami gathers her trembling body close with one arm.

She gives a muffled little groan when he bites down on her lip, and floods their mouths with the copper-bright taste of Takaba’s own lifeblood. When he releases for air, she’s panting, fingers digging into his arms in a tight grip, her lips red and swollen and will likely soon be bruised, and he licks the tiny spot of blood at the corner of her mouth with a wicked flick of his tongue. “Asami,” she gasps out, in that wrecked voice that makes him want her more, her eyes bright with need, “you–”

“Shh.” He seals their mouths together again with a hungry kiss, his hands lifting her from his lap as he rucks up her pretty little dress to her waist. He could feel the heat of her against his own hardness, and he tears her tights off ruthlessly, hands smoothing against her inner thighs as he did, Asami’s arousal growing more unbearable as he feels Takaba shiver and respond under his touch, nipping at his lips, kissing him back fiercely, claiming his mouth and breath.

Takaba whimpers as he slides his fingers against the slick heat of her, thumb teasing the tiny sensitive nub at the core of her that makes Takaba’s breath hitch and her body writhe with pleasure. “So wet already,” he growls against the curve of her ear, smirking when Takaba cries out when he fucks her with his fingers, curling them inside her and brushing against that secret spot within her, and it isn’t long until she _comes_ , keening out his name, shaking, panting, and Asami’s _undone_ , the desire for her hitting him like a punch in the gut. He wants to be inside of that tight warmth, _now_ , to hear her moan and whimper, to cover the length of her body with his own, to fill her and all her senses as she fills him, to have her think of nothing but him, of them and no one else. _His, only his._

The way she responds to his every touch, the arch of her body, the taste and scent of her sweat and musk from their exertions, he _craves_ it, revels in it, would likely do anything for it. Takaba in the throes of passion is _intoxicating_ , addicting. She always seems to fight her own desires and pleasure, and that’s fine with him — it makes it all the sweeter when she finally lets go, surrenders and gives in to him and her own desires.

This time, though, Takaba is unmistakably eager, if the way she’s breathlessly undoing his pants, fingers quick and nimble, is any indication. “Impatient, aren’t we?” he murmurs against her ear, his free hand sliding to the small of her back.

Instead of the glare he’d been expecting, Takaba kisses him, greedy and possessive, mouth hot and wet and sweet, before taking his bottom lip between her teeth and _tugging_ , just as she carefully draws him out of his pants and gives him a long, firm stroke with warm, slick hands, surprising a groan from him.

“Come _on_.” She grins, the bright, mischievous grin that captured him, so long ago, in that rooftop, the once furious eyes looking at him now, still as defiant as before (but no longer angry), still as compelling and captivating as before. She grinds down against him, brushing the core of her against him. “What are you waiting for?”

“ _You_ ,” he growls out, taking that insolent mouth in a rough kiss as he lifts her off his lap. He smirks as Takaba breaks off their kiss and mewls when he thrusts inside of her, her fingers scrabbling against his back. He sheathes himself to the hilt, and then he pauses for a moment, to savor her warmth, her tightness, her scent, both so different and familiar now, part of the many fascinating changes brought on by her pregnancy.

But Takaba isn’t finished with her surprises. Curling her fingers in his hair, she squeezes his thighs between her own, and raises herself nearly off his cock, and _moves_.

He doesn’t remember much, after that. He remembers the white hot jolt up his spine, and just _Takaba_. She rides with him with near delirious want, her hips rocking sharply to meet his thrusts, urging him _faster_ , fingers digging deep into his shoulder for purchase, for strength, even as his own fingers on her hips do the same — there would be finger-shaped bruises on their bodies, afterwards, more so on her. Takaba so easily bruises now, in her pregnancy, giving her the illusion of fragility, but there’s nothing delicate or fragile in the way they are now, their mouths sliding together in messy, slick kisses, sweat-damped clutching each other so close until it’s hard to tell where one ended and the other began, each movement of their bodies communicating their hunger, their desperation to sate this thirst for each other, Takaba crying out his name, over and over — a plea, a prayer, an enticement, it doesn’t matter, Asami heeds and follows her all the same.

Follows her deep, _deep_ into the abyss.

\------

Somewhere after the third or fourth round, while they lie together, Takaba suddenly starts giggling.

“What’s so funny, hmm?”

She curls to him, pressing her face to the crook of his arm. “I don’t think this is quite the ending my ex-editor had in mind when she talked to me.”

Asami lifts one brow. “Aki–”

“Yeah, yeah.” Takaba looks at him with solemn eyes. “Don’t do anything to her, OK? You had that ‘I will fuck someone up’ face a while back. Just don’t, OK? As you’ve also said, she’s been a great boss, and she’s probably just very concerned. Hell, I probably would have been, had I been in her shoes. You do need warning tags.” She touches his face with gentle fingers. “I don’t think she said it to be cruel or anything. She was just warning me, that’s all.”

“Warnings have never stopped you before.”

“Clearly,” she says with an amused snort. “We could always blame youth,” she adds after a moment, voice light and flippant. “I read the human brain doesn’t really fully develop until you’re twenty-five. I’m twenty-three. Maybe when I turn twenty-five I’ll come to my senses, or something.”

His arms wrap around her, tight and possessive. “Is that so?”

Takaba flashes him a cheeky grin. “We’ll see,” she replies, wriggling closer, her swelling belly pressing against his stomach. Almost absently, Asami places a hand over her stomach. Their unborn child is quiet for now, seemingly undisturbed by his parents’ enthusiastic activity earlier.

They stay entwined for several moments, savoring each other’s presence, but then Takaba huffs, and carefully disentangles herself from Asami, sitting up gingerly. “Crap. I’m sticky all over. I’m going to go for a shower and a soak.” She gives Asami a stern look. “You’re welcome to join me, but no … hanky-panky.”

“Hanky-panky.”

“Just shut up and join me, asshole.” 

\------

When Hakuba Sara returns to her office the next day, she finds a bouquet of dazzling yellow roses on her table. There is no card, no name, nothing to give away who sent the flowers to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll probably write an epilogue, or maybe a few more snippets. But for now, back to the main arc of Changes. 
> 
> [This](http://icydk.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/nicole_kidman-2008_cmt_music_awards_arrivals-13_122_810lo.jpg) is how I imagine Takaba looking like at this stage. Yes, that’s Nicole Kidman, 5–6 months pregnant with Sunday Rose. She does gain a more prominent bump. [Eventually](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/05/19/article-1020399-014CDA2C00000578-589_468x872.jpg). Also, with regards to sex while pregnant, it varies from person to person. 
> 
> If you look back at the conversation between Aki and her editor (Sara), you’d note Aki didn’t really lie about anything. ^__~ She did withhold information from her ex-editor, though. In this verse, Aki’s paternal grandfather is a younger twin (they’re identical). Takaba’s mother has a twin brother she doesn’t like to talk about (he’s dead, died young under mysterious circumstances). 
> 
> Yes, Asami sent those flowers. Yellow roses in floriography/hanakotoba mean, depending on which list you’re consulting, friendship or jealousy. So Asami’s deliberately being vague about the whole thing — he’s implying she’s jealous and at the same time he’s sort of ‘thanking’ her for her ‘help’ in, er, facilitating last night with Aki. Sakura, which is what is in Aki’s necklace, mean ‘kind’, ‘gentle’. How does Asami know these things? Kirishima. Kirishima knows all.

**Author's Note:**

>  **amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus** is Latin for “love is rich with both honey and venom.”
> 
> I wrote this way, waaaay before Sudoh entered the scene or the latest chapter. To be fair, Sara does have good intentions in mind. She likes Aki, and knows Asami fairly well enough to worry about her. She just wants to look after Aki. Too bad she’s way, waaaay too late. I know this is so cliché, ahh but fuckit.
> 
> But really I just want to have Takaba have awkward!turtle times as women around her lust after her lover/the father of her child. And her and Asami to have hot sex. #ImshallowOK
> 
> _The Eyrie_ and _Club Arryn_ gets its name from George R.R. Martin’s epic and brutal fantasy saga, _A Song of Ice and Fire_ (known also as HBO’s _Game of Thrones_ ).
> 
> **(805):** _OH DEAR GOD. He looks like if u licked him he'd taste like bourbon, sex and sunshine_ : I owe this from Texts From Last Night. Obviously sunshine is not a trait associated with Asami.
> 
> _Bergamot_ is one of the ingredients of many, many colognes and perfumes. In hoodoo rootwork, bergamot is used to control or command, and for this reason is used in a variety of spells and formulas in which a practitioner might wish to subdue another person.


End file.
